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I 
American Agriculturist, December 8, 1923 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
397 
“fpEN minutes!” cried a voice; “’e won’t last five—see if ’e do.” 
J. “ Feel sorry for un,” said a second; “ ’e do be so pale as a sheet a’ready.” 
“So would you be if you was in ’is shoes!” chimed in a third; whereat there was a genex-al 
laugh. 
Indeed, as I looked round the ring of grinning, unresponsive faces, it was plain to see that all 
sympathy was against the stranger, as is the way of bird, beast, fish, but especially man, the 
world over—and I experienced a sudden sense of loneliness which was, I think, only natural. 
Yet, as I ptit up my hand to loose the strap of my knapsack, I encountered another already there, 
and, turning, beheld Simon the Innkeeper. 
“If it do come to fightin’,” he whispered close in my ear, “and I’m fair sure it will, keep 
away as much as you can. Moreover, whatever you do, watch ’is right, and when you do see a 
chance to strike, go for ’is chin—a little to one side—and strike danged ’ard!” 
“Many thanks for your friendly advice,” said I, with a grateful nod. 
“Come,” said Black George, at this juncture, “I’ve work waitin’ to be done.” 
“I’m quite ready,” said I, stepping forward. It was now arranged that* standing alternately 
within the circle, we should each have three throws—whoever should make the two best throws 
to win. 
Hereupon, the smith took his place within 
the circle, hammer in hand. 
Now, as probably every one knows, it is 
one thing to swing a sledge-hammer in the 
ordinary way but quite another to throw it 
any distance, for there is required, beside the 
bodily strength, a certain amount of knowl¬ 
edge, without which a man is necessarily 
handicapped. Thus, despite my opponent’s 
great strength of arm, I was fairly sanguine of 
the result. 
B LACK GEORGE took a fresh grip upon 
the hammer-shaft, twirled it lightly 
above his head, swung it once, twice, thrice— 
and let it go. 
With a shout, Job and two or three others 
ran down the road to mark where it had fallen, 
and presently returned, pacing out the dis¬ 
tance. 
“Fifty-nine!” they announced. 
“Can ’ee beat that?” inquired Black George 
complacently. 
“I think I can,” I answered as, taking up 
the hammer, I, in turn, stepped into the ring. 
Gripping the shaft firmly, I whirled it aloft, 
and began to swing it swifter and swifter, till, 
like a flash, it flew from my grasp. Panting, 
I watched it rise, and then plunge down to 
earth in a smother of dust. 
“’E’ve beat it!” cried the Ancient excitedly. 
“Lord love me, ’e beat it!” 
“Ay, ’e ’ve beat it, sure-ly,” said a man 
who carried a rake that was forever getting in 
everybody’s way. 
“Ah! but Jarge are n’t got ’is arm in yet,” 
retorted a third; “Jarge can do better nor that 
by a long sight!” Bu,t now all voices were 
hushed as Job paced up. 
“Eighty-two!” he announced. Black 
George looked hard at me, stepped sulkily 
into the ring, moistened his palms, looked at 
me again, and seizing the hammer, began to 
whirl it. Round and round it went, faster 
and faster, till, with a sudden lurch, he hurled 
it up and away. Indeed it was a mighty 
throw! Straight and strong it flew, describing 
a wide parabola ere it thudded into the road. 
T HE excitement now waxed high, and 
many started off to measure the distance 
for themselves, shouting one to another as 
they went. As for the smith, I saw that the 
twinkle was back in his eyes again. 
“One hunner and twenty!” cried half-a- 
dozen voices. 
“Can ’ee beat that?” inquired Black George 
again. 
“It was a marvelous throw!” said I, shaking 
my head. And indeed, in my heart I knew I 
could never hope to equal, much less beat, 
such a mighty cast. I therefore decided on 
strategy, and, with this in mind, proceeded, in 
a leisurely fashion, once more to mark out the 
circle, to roll up my sleeves, and tighten my 
belt; in fine, I observed all such precautions as 
a man might be expected to take before some 
supreme effort. 
“Means to do it this time!” cried the man 
with the rake, knocking off Job’s hat in his 
excitement, as, with a tremendous swing, I 
made my second throw. There was a breath¬ 
less silence as the hammer hurtled through the 
air; then came a shout of laughter, for the 
distance was palpably short. A moment later 
Job came pacing up, and announced: 
“Eighty-seven!” Hereupon arose a very 
babel of voices: 
“You’ve got un beat a’ready, Jarge!” 
“Well, I knowed it from the start!” 
“Let un alone,” cried Simon, “’e ’ve got 
another chance yet.” 
That my ruse had succeeded with the crowd 
was evident; they—to a man—-believed I had 
done my best, and already regarded me as 
hopelessly beaten. My chance of winning 
depended upon whether the smith, deluded 
into a like belief, should content himself with 
just beating my last throw. 
It was with a beating heart, therefore, that I 
watched him take his place. He took up the 
hammer with such a businesslike air that my 
heart sank, and, feeling a touch upon my arm, 
I was glad to turn away. 
“I be goin’ to fetch a sponge and water,” 
said Simon. 
“A sponge and water!” 
“Ah! Likewise some vinegar—theer ’s 
nothin’ like vinegar—and remember—the 
chin, a little to one side preferred.” 
And, with a friendly nod, the Innkeeper 
turned away. In that same minute there arose 
another shout from the crowd as they greeted 
Black George’s last throw, and Job, striding up, 
announced: 
“Ninety-eight!” 
T HEN, while the air still echoed with their 
plaudits, I stepped into the ring, and, 
catching up the hammer, swimg it high above 
my head, and, at the full length of my arms, 
began to wheel it. The iron spun faster and 
faster till, setting my teeth, with the whole 
force of every fiber, every nerve, and muscle 
of my body, I let it fly. 
The blood was throbbing at my temples and 
my breath coming fast as I watched its curving 
flight. And now all voices were hushed so that 
the ring of the iron could be plainly heard as 
it struck the hard road, and all eyes watched 
Job, as he began pacing towards us. As he 
drew nearer I could hear him counting to 
himself, thus: 
“Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, 
ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one 
hundred and one, one hundred and two— 
one hundred and two.” 
Next moment, as it seemed to me, an in¬ 
articulate Ancient was desperately trying to 
force me into my coat, wrong side first, and 
Simon was shaking my hand. 
“You tricked me!” cried a voice, and turn¬ 
ing, I found Black George confronting me 
with clenched fists. 
“And how did I trick you?” 
“I could ha’ chucked farther.” 
“Then why didn’t you?” i 
“Because I thought you was beat. I say 
you tricked me.” 
“And I tell you the match was a fair one 
from start to finish!” 
“Put up your hands!” said the smith, ad¬ 
vancing in a threatening manner. 
“No,” said I, “a bargain is a bargain.” 
“Put up your hands!” repeated Black 
George hoarsely. 
“For the last time, no,” said I. “Strike me 
if you will,” I went on, seeing him raise his fist, 
“ I shall not defend myself, but I tell you this, 
Black George, the first blow you strike will 
brand you coward, and no honest man.” 
“Coward, is it?” cried he, and, with the 
word, had seized me in a grip that crushed 
my flesh, and nigh swung me off my feet; 
“coward, is it?” he repeated. 
“Yes,” said I, “none but a coward would 
attack an unresisting man.” So, for a full 
minute we stood thus, staring into each other’s 
eyes. 
W HAT would have been the end I cannot 
say, but there came upon the stillness 
the sound of flying footsteps, the crowd was 
burst asunder, and a girl stood before us, a 
Ldl, handsome girl with raven hair, and great, 
flashing black eyes. 
“Oh!—you, Jarge, think shame on your¬ 
self—think shame on yourself. Black Jarge. 
Look!” she cried, pointing a finger at him, 
“look at the great, strong man—as is a 
coward!” 
I felt the smith’s grip relax, his arms dropped 
to his sides, while a deep, red glow crept up his 
cheeks till it was lost in the clustering curls of 
gleaming yellow hair. . 
“Why, Prue—” he began, in a strangely 
altered voice, and stopped. The fire was gone 
from his eyes and he made a movement as 
though he would have reached out his hand to 
her, but checked himself. 
“Why, Prue—” he said again, but choked 
suddenly, and, turning away, strode back 
towards his forge without another word. I 
thought there was something infinitely woe¬ 
begone and pitiful in the droop of his head. 
Now as I looked from his forlorn figure to 
the beautiful, flushed face of the girl, I saw her 
eyes grow wonderfully soft and sweet, and 
brim over with tears. And she also turned, 
and, crossing swiftly to the inn, vanished 
through its open doorway. 
“She ’ve a fine sperrit, ’ave that darter o’ 
yourn, Simon. Oh! a fine sperrit as ever was!” 
chuckled the Ancient. 
“Prue aren’t afeard o’ Black Jarge—never 
was,” returned Simon; “she can manage un— 
alius could.” 
“Ah! she ’m a gran’darter to be proud on, 
be Prue,” nodded the Ancient, “an’ proud I 
be tu!” 
“What,” said I, “is she your daughter, 
Simon?” 
“Ay, for sure.” 
“And your granddaughter. Ancient?” 
“Ay, that she be, that she be.” 
“Why, then Simon must be your son.” 
“Son as ever was!” nodded the old man, 
“and a goodish son ’e be tu—oh, I’ve seen 
worse.” 
“And now,” added Simon, “come in, and 
you shall taste as fine a jug of ale as there be in 
allKent.” 
“Wait,” said the old man, laying his hand 
upon my arm, “I’ve took to you, young chap, 
took to you amazin’; what might your name 
be?” 
“Peter,” I answered. 
“A good name, a fine name,” nodded the 
old man. 
“Peter—Simon,” said he, glancing from 
one to the other of us. “Simon—Peter; mi n ds 
me o’ the disciple of our blessed Lord, it du; 
a fine name be Peter.” 
So Peter I became to him thenceforth, and 
to the whole village. 
CHAPTER XXV 
WHEREIN I LEARN MORE CONCERNING THE 
GHOST OF THE RUINED HUT 
A ND after the Ancient and Simon and I 
had, very creditably, emptied the jug 
between us, I rose to depart. 
“Peter,” said the Ancient, “wheer be goin’?” 
“The cottage in the Hollow,” said I. 
“What—th’ ’aunted cottage?” he cried, 
staring. 
“Yes,” I nodded; “from what I saw of it, I 
think, with a little repairing, it might suit me 
very well.” 
“But the ghost?” cried the old man; “have 
ye forgot the ghost?” 
“Why, I never heard of a ghost really harm¬ 
ing any one yet,” I answered. 
“Peter,” said Simon, quietly, “I wouldn’t 
be too sure o’ that. I wouldn’t go a-nigh the 
place, myself; once is enough for me.” 
“Simon,” said I, “what do you mean by 
‘once’?” 
Simon shuffled uneasily in his chair. 
“I mean, Peter, as I’ve heerd un,” he replied 
slowly. 
“Heard him!” I repeated incredulously; 
“you? t Are you sure?” 
“Sure as death, Peter. I’ve heerd un 
a-shriekin’ and a-groanin’ to ’isself, same as 
Gaffer ’as, and lots of others. Why, Lord 
bless ’ee! theer be scarce a man in these parts 
but ’as ’eerd um one time or another.” 
“AY—I’ve ’eerd un, and seen un tu!” 
croaked the Ancient excitedly. “A gert, 
tall think ’e be, wi’ a ’orn on ’is ’ead, and like¬ 
wise a tail; ’t were Old Nick ’isself, all flame, 
and brimstone, wi’ a babby under ’is arm!” 
“A baby?” I repeated. 
“ A babby as ever was,” nodded the Ancient. 
“And you say you have heard it too, 
Simon?” said I. 
“Ay,” nodded the Innkeeper; “I went down 
into th’ ’Oiler one evenin’'—’bout six months 
ago, wi’ Black Jarge, for we ’ad a mind to 
knock th’ owd place to pieces, and get rid o’ 
the ghost that way. Well, Jarge ups wi’ ’is 
’ammer, and down comes the rotten old door 
wi’ a crash. Jarge ’ad swung up ’is ’ammer for 
another blow when, all at once, theer comes a 
scream.” Here Simon shivered involuntarily. 
“A scream?” said I. 
“Ah!” nodded Simon, “but ’t were worse 
nor that.” Here he paused again, and I was 
surprised to see that his broad, strong hands 
were shaking, and that his brow glistened with 
moisture. 
“What was it like?” I inquired, struck by 
this apparent weakness in one so hardy and 
full of health. 
“’T were a scream wi’ a bubble in it,” he an¬ 
swered, speaking with an effort, “’t were like 
somebody shriekin’ out wi’ ’is throat choked 
up wi’ blood. Jarge and me didn’t wait for no 
more; we run. Ecod! it do make me cold to 
talk of it, even now.” Here Simon paused to 
mop the grizzled hair at his temples. “I tell 
’ee, Peter, that place are n’t fit for no man at 
night. If so be you’m lookin’ for a bed, my 
chap, theer’s one you can ’ave at ‘The Bull,’ 
ready and willin’.” , 
“An’ gratus!” added the Ancient, tapping 
his snuff-box. 
“Why,” said I, “it is n’t that I doubt your 
word, but my mind is set on the adventure. 
So, if Simon will let me have threepenny worth 
of candles, and some bread and meat—I’ll 
be off, for I should like to get there before 
dusk.” 
N ODDING gloomily, Simon rose and went 
out, whereupon the Ancient leaned over 
and laid a yellow, clawlike hand upon my arm. 
“Peter,” said he, “Peter, I’ve took to you 
amazin’; just a few inches taller—an’ you’d 
be the very spit o’ what I were at your age.” 
“Thank you. Ancient!” said I, laying my 
hand on his. 
“Now, Peter, ’t would be a hijious thing— 
a very hijious thing if, when I come a-gatherin’ 
watercress in the marnin’, I should find you 
a-danglin’ on t’ stapil, cold and stiff—’t would 
be a hijious—hijious thing, Peter, but oh! 
’twould mak’ a fine story in the tellin’.” 
In a little while Simon returned with the 
candles, tinder-box, and a parcel of bread and 
meat, for which he gloomily but persistently 
refused payment. Last of all he produced a 
small, brass-bound pistol, which he insisted 
on my taking. 
“Not as it’ll be much use again’ a ghost,” 
said he, with a gloomy shake of the head, “but 
a pistol’s a comfortable thing to ’ave in a 
lonely place—’specially if that place be very 
dark.” Which last, if something illogical, may 
be none the less true. 
So, having shaken each by the hand, I bade 
them good night, and set off along the dark¬ 
ening road. 
CHAPTER XXVI 
WHICH TELLS HOW AND IN WHAT MANNER I 
SAW THE GHOST 
N OW, as I went, my mind was greatly 
exercised as to a feasible explanation of 
what I had just heard. That a man so old as 
the Ancient should “see things” I could readily 
believe, by reason of his years, but with Simon, 
a man in the prime of his life, it was a different 
matter altogether. That he had been abso¬ 
lutely sincere in his story I had read in his 
dilating eye and the involuntary shiver that 
had passed over him while he spoke. 
Ghosts!—pshaw! What being, endowed 
with a reasoning mind, could allow himself to 
believe in such folly? 
Yet here, and all at once, like an enemy 
from the dark, old stories leaped out and seized 
me by the throat: old tales of specters grim and 
bloody, of goblins, and haunted houses from 
whose dim desolation strange sounds would 
come. 
Involuntarily I hastened my steps, but the 
sun had set ere I reached the Hollow. The 
great basin below me was already brimful of 
shadows. Indeed, it looked an unholy place 
in the half light, the very haunt of horrid 
goblins and specters, grim and ghastly. 
(Continued on page 399 ) 
THE STORY AS IT HAS PROGRESSED SO FAR 
"PLENTY of adventures have come to Peter Vibart, who has taken, disinherited, 
to the broad highway. He has been mistaken for his cousin, the rascally Sir 
Maurice, he has helped an unfortunate young gentleman to return to his lands and 
lady, he has rescued beauty in distress and heard of the charms of the Lady Sophia 
Sefton, whom he has never met but whom his uncle’s will has bidden him marry 
to inherit the fortune. 
Finally, Peter comes to a lonely cottage, where he meets a quaint old man who 
brings him to an Inn. Peter hears that “Black George,” a hot-tempered smith, 
needs a helper. They determine on a hammer-throwing contest to see whether 
he should be hired. 
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